


give in to dreaming

by ilgaksu



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Disney World & Disneyland, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, The Foxes Go To Disneyland, yes you read right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: “In retrospect,” Dan says, now that they are here, and she is forced to fully contemplate the unbridled potential for absolute fucking chaos simmering one set of Mickey Mouse ears below the surface, “This was a tactical error.”
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 7
Kudos: 187





	give in to dreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crumplelush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumplelush/gifts).



“In retrospect,” Dan says, now that they are here, and she is forced to fully contemplate the unbridled potential for absolute fucking chaos simmering one set of Mickey Mouse ears below the surface, “This was a tactical error.”

Before them unfolds the neat, orderly queues of people waiting to enter Tokyo Disneyland. Next to her, Aaron snorts. 

“You think?” is all he says, and shoulders past them all. 

Admittedly, the set of those same shoulders does soften a bare fraction when he catches up to the object of his pursuit - Katelyn is standing, blonde and tanned and backlit by the blazing sun of a Japanese summer, with a smile stretched across her face to match. Somehow, she refuses to wilt in this heat, and her joy seems to infect Aaron in turn - it’s like watching two sunflowers turn towards each other. By Neil, Andrew’s expression is a war between disgust and pretended apathy at the sight. 

“This is going to be like the Hunger Games, isn’t it?” Matt says. They’d watched it for movie night like a week ago and now he’s comparing everything they ever do to it, which - Neil concedes - is not an entirely unapt basis for comparison. It’s just also really fucking annoying. When he glances out of the corner of his eyes, Matt is grinning brightly, all clasped hands with Dan, backpack slung over his shoulder, looking as foolishly enthused as a volunteer parent on a school-trip. Dan, of course, looks like the teacher: that is to say, self-aware, overworked and already exhausted one hour into the excursion. 

“Just say bloodbath,” Neil advises him. 

He senses Andrew smiling, but when he faces him, Andrew’s face is back to a studious kind of blankness. It doesn’t, however, disguise the strange, irrepressible gleam of something in his eyes as they shuffle ever closer to the gates themselves. Neil hopes it’s a good gleam, and if it’s a bad gleam, for the consequences to stop short of arson. His Japanese is weak at best, picked up in preparation for these championships, and it’s lacking in the most relevant phrases for on and off the court - things such as “I’m going to ruin your whole career,” or “Nice try, bitch,” or “Don’t actually kill him, Andrew.” It does, however, allow him to politely thank the staff as they pass through the gates, so perhaps not a total waste with regards to keeping the peace. 

Of course, said peace doesn’t last: the moment they are into the park and onto Main Street proper, the expected chaos predictably ensues. They don’t even make it twenty seconds. Dan looks disappointed, but honestly, Neil is almost proud of them all. Go Foxes! This time is truly a team effort. Later, there’ll be an argument as to who actually started the bitterly heated argument over mouse ears at the stand not even three metres into Main Street, and Neil will side with someone for the sake of spite, and Andrew will side with Neil for the sake of siding with Neil, but this one is definitely on all of them. Neil almost wants to stay and watch it unfold, for the sheer schadenfreude of it all, only - 

Only Andrew hooks two pale fingers around his inner wrist, almost as if testing for a pulse, and tugs him away from the ever-rising cacophony. Neil goes easily, even in an unfamiliar city: he trusts Andrew better than his own bones. 

“Where are we going?” is all he asks, and Andrew shrugs. He’s still all in black, despite the humidity, and Neil can see his shirt sticking to him in patches, the faint shimmer of sweat dappling at his throat and jawline. Neil spends a little too long lost in love to catch the answer, so he asks again. Andrew sends him an exasperated look. 

“I said,” he tells Neil, impatient. “Anywhere that isn’t with them. Can’t you listen?” 

For all the spike of his words, his hold is constant on Neil’s wrist, heedless of the looks it’s garnering so Neil smiles. The smile comes easy. He says, “Sure, Andrew.” Andrew barely looks at him before he turns his head away, sighs, and leads Neil further into the park complex. 

Here’s the thing: it’s not like Neil Josten doesn’t know Disney at all. He was on the run, not six feet under. It would have been impossible to be entirely disengaged from one of the biggest examples of global media, the cornerstone of a typical American childhood. In fact, in order to be unobtrusive, it was even considered necessary by his mother for him to have the same kind of cultural references as every other kid, the same knowledge to signal he was as normal and boring and forgettable as anyone else. People don’t remember a blandly-dressed, pale-faced kid amongst many: they remember the Buzz Lightyear lunch box he carries, and that can be discarded as easily as anything. A colour-by-numbers kind of child. A colour-by-numbers kind of childhood. There are only the colours as named in the rainbow, the red is only the colour of Mickey’s shorts: there is no other association. There is no ochre. 

Neil closes his eyes, opens them, struggles to stay in the present. This time, he wins. 

It’s only when they pause somewhere in the vicinity of the sci-fi flavour of rides, meandering through Star Wars and Toy Story and a frankly dizzying array of popcorn buckets, that Neil realises the purpose of this first stop. Andrew deposits him outside a food court with a curt, “Wait here,” and disappears inside. Neil waits, and people-watches, and is debating the merits of a popcorn bucket when Andrew returns with two small plastic tubs, placing one down in front of him. Neil peers inside. 

“Ice cream,” he says, looking at Andrew. “You brought me here for ice cream.”

“Mochi,” Andrew corrects, and pops one of the said ice-cream mochi - molded into a passable likeness of the Toy Story aliens - into his mouth whole. He bites down with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm for gnashing a beloved children’s character to death under his teeth, but who’s judging? Not Neil. He tries one. It’s strawberry. 

“It’s good,” he says. “It’s good, Andrew.”

He’s not talking about the ice cream.

“I know,” Andrew replies, and he does seem to. He does seem to know. He pauses, looks at Neil for a long, slow blink that on a cat is a good as a kiss, and turns back to his little plastic tub. “They have churros, too,” he volunteers, after a moment. “I saw them online. It’s not far.” 

“Do you want to go there next?” Neil says. Andrew raises an eyebrow. 

“You don’t have to follow me around all the time, Neil.”

“I don’t,” Neil replies. He can tell Andrew senses he’s winding up for some kind of declaration, because he scowls, but he doesn’t move away and he doesn’t tell Neil to shut up, so that’s progress. All of this is the progress. The next bite of ice-cream is chocolate. Neil smiles. At him. “I don’t have to follow you anywhere, Andrew. So now we’ve established that: where next?” 


End file.
